


Psmith, Investigator

by DoreyG



Category: Psmith - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Regency, House Party, Kissing, M/M, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25912798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: “Brother Jackson,” Psmith said, and only then looked up with a small and easy smile upon his lips. “You had been gone quite some time, I was starting to abandon all hope of seeing you again. ‘Where did my dear friend go?’ I started questioning. ‘Surely he wouldn’t have left me here alone, in this den of veritable wolves,’ I gasped, with just atouchof drama. ‘If he has abandoned me, I am fully lost!’ I lamented, mercifully inside my own head. And so on and so forth, etcetera etcetera.”
Relationships: Mike Jackson/Rupert Psmith
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8
Collections: Alternate Universe Exchange 2020





	Psmith, Investigator

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KannaOphelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KannaOphelia/gifts).



Mrs Church had five daughters, and a gimlet eye for a good match. It took Mike several hours to escape her, and his nerves were still jangling when he strode into their host’s library to find Psmith sat in a chair and reading a book with every indication of absorption.

“Brother Jackson,” Psmith said, and only then looked up with a small and easy smile upon his lips. “You had been gone quite some time, I was starting to abandon all hope of seeing you again. ‘Where did my dear friend go?’ I started questioning. ‘Surely he wouldn’t have left me here alone, in this den of veritable wolves,’ I gasped, with just a _touch_ of drama. ‘If he has abandoned me, I am fully lost!’ I lamented, mercifully inside my own head. And so on and so forth, etcetera etcetera.”

“I hate this place,” Mike said, with some feeling, and stamped over until he could kneel down in front of Psmith and drag him into a brief but nevertheless intense kiss. “Please tell me that your investigations are going well, so we can leave soon.”

“Brother Jackson-” Psmith began, another slight smile playing around his lips.

“And _don’t_ call me that. You know how it makes me feel, you silly ass. I have plenty of brothers, I don’t need the man I take to my bed on a regular basis to start thinking of himself as one of them.”

“Noted.” Psmith rarely did anything as plebian as laugh, but there was a certain sparkle in his eye that promised trouble in the future. “ _Our_ investigations are going fairly swimmingly at the moment, you’ll be pleased to hear. We have mastered the doggy paddle and the breaststroke. Though I must, alas, admit that the backstroke is still tantalizingly just out of reach.”

Mike was used to Psmith’s digressions, but sometimes that made them no easier to bear. He huffed a deep sigh and, seeing that they were still the only two in the library, lowered himself to sit on the floor at Psmith’s feet. “Meaning?”

“Meaning that I have discovered definitive evidence of wrongdoing, quite incompetently locked away I must say, but no clear and irrefutable evidence of who perpetrated the wrong,” Psmith replied, also used to explaining his digressions to the far more practical minded Mike. “We can assume that it was our host, it being quite casually left in the inadequately locked drawer of his desk would suggest as much, but he has already proven slippery. He will deny it if pressed, try and pin the blame on other parties, quite possibly even grow distressingly violent.”

“You know, we _could_ press him,” Mike said hopefully, perking up a little for the first time since Mrs Church had sat next to him earlier that evening and started listing the numerous positive attributes of her oldest daughter. “You know I’m not adverse to a bit of a brawl, and it might be the quickest way to prove that he’s our man.”

“Brother-” Psmith narrowly smothered another smile, as Mike tipped his head back to glare at him. “My apologies, I _quite_ forgot. While you are not adverse to a brawl, in this situation I am. It would not please our superiors-”

“Which you don’t give a toss about.”

“-And is likely to complicate our aims, instead of achieving them as is the true ideal.” Psmith finished, surprisingly gently. He was not gentle often, there was a reason why criminals feared his name so very much, but for Mike he considered it always worth the effort. “If you brawl with him he will be well within his rights, villain or not, to throw us out of this house party. And then we lose all chance of solving this murder, and getting true justice for the victim.”

“I know.” Mike sighed, defeated. “That is our actual goal. It’s just…”

“You don’t like being pawed at by matchmaking mamas,” Psmith said soothingly, in the tone of a man who knew Mike better than anybody else ever had. “Or matchmaking papas, sisters, daughters, sons or anything in between. In fact, any kind of matchmaking - especially in the direction of matrimonial pursuits - is anathema to you.”

“I hate it,” Mike said, which was a far shorter way of saying exactly the same thing. “Being looked at, being _judged_. And I know it’s worse for the poor girls involved, I wouldn’t wish being Mrs Church's daughter on my worst enemy, but… It’s just horrible. It makes me feel utterly unsuited for this whole thing.”

That got Psmith to look away from his book properly, at least. He stared down at Mike, a thoughtful frown upon his lips. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not supposed to be in a situation like this. Being bait, being pleasant and glowing and distracting so you can get on with whatever vital crime solving business you have to.” Mike sighed heavily, took the opportunity to lean back against Psmith’s leg and draw strength from there. “I’m not good at talking, or being pleasant, or even pretending. I’m good at running and fighting and acting in the moment, and I just feel…”

“Yes?” Psmith prompted, when he trailed off awkwardly. “What do you feel, Mike?”

“Like I’m letting you down,” Mike admitted, only the uncharacteristic - and startlingly intimate - use of his first name breaking through the barrier of his own awkwardness. “Like you’re being your usual genius self, and I’m just being incompetent and… There.”

“Mike,” Psmith said softly. And then, when the repetition failed to have the same effect as the first brush, gave a pointedly heavy sigh and slid down off the chair until he was perched on the floor in front of Mike. “Brother Jackson, look at me.”

Mike looked, inevitably. “I thought I told you not to call me that.”

“I will call you many things, _brother_ , if the result is you leaving your black study and listening to me in an appropriate and kindly manner.” Psmith said, not impolitely but with a certain unexpected glitter of steel now in his eyes. “I could not do this without you. I know you do not believe it, but _hush_. This situation, all of these situations that strung together we call life, would be utterly untenable without your presence besides me.”

Mike stared at him. A small part of him touched, the main part of him thrown into a state of utter confusion. “Weren’t you listening to me? I don’t _do_ anything-”

“There is no obligation to listen to any man when he is being irreverent,” Psmith said, quite firmly. “You do many things, brother Jackson, and I will not hear otherwise. It would be an insult to the universe to do so, a grave insult against the act of hearing that would be likely to produce severe consequences, and I will not have it. Without you, who would punch my foes when needed? Who would hear my observations, and reply to them without incredulity or derision? Who would stand by my side in golden glory, and provide a veneer of much needed respectability? _Who_?”

“Psmith…” Mike said, still not entirely convinced.

“Who,” Psmith interrupted him, definitely determined now. “Would have my back in every situation, no matter how dire or ridiculous? Who would always care for my wellbeing, no matter what?”

Mike stared at him for a long moment, finally stilled into silence. Psmith mutely stared back, with an intensity in his eyes that few others had ever had cause to see.

“I guess you’re right,” Mike said eventually, half answering the out loud words and half answering a conversation entirely silent. “I’m still allowed not to like it, though.”

“Indeed,” Psmith said grandly, magnanimously relinquishing the title of brother as a small reward. “You are also allowed to be uncomfortable, resentful and longing for it all to be over. You are, further, allowed to dislike all matchmaking mamas, feel pity for matchmade daughters and despise the general state of matrimony altogether. Further _more_ , again, you are allowed to be red with fury or puce with anger or green with nausea. You are, in short, allowed to be anything you like. As long as-”

“I remain by your side,” Mike finished softly, and finally allowed himself a smile in Psmith’s direction. “For as long as we both shall live.”

“Yes.” Psmith blinked, briefly, and then cleared his throat. “Mike-”

“There’s no need to worry about that, you silly ass,” Mike said, allowing himself a significant moment of affection, and leaned forwards. Psmith was far slighter than him, and so rather easy to bear down to the floor. He was easy to kiss too, a brief brush of lips opening up into a full bodied embrace, and before long they were happily tangled on the floor together.

“It might be unwise to take me on our host’s very fine, and surprisingly comfortable, library floor.” Psmith managed eventually, in between fervent kisses. “If anybody was to walk in, murderous host or matchmaking mama, an entirely new set of problems would arise that it’d be rather hard to explain.”

“I locked the door,” Mike said cheerfully, slipping a hand down Psmith’s wonderfully tight breeches. “And, besides, you _know_ I’m always up for a brawl.”

Neither of them spoke much, after that. Although they did make many other kinds of noise.


End file.
